


A Brief Peace

by thefontbandit



Series: Silver & Gold [11]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 17:06:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5751208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefontbandit/pseuds/thefontbandit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a bit of downtime at Skyhold between missions, Dorian and Inquisitor Adaar find a moment of respite, and Dorian comes to a private resolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Brief Peace

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first piece I wrote about these two, before I realized it would become an ongoing series. There's some phrasing that makes this one a more obvious stand-alone than other stories in "Silver & Gold". It was originally intended to be the only fic I wrote about this pair, but that ship has long since sailed. 
> 
> However, I've decided to keep the series in chronological order, which places this one at the end. It may be subject to mild editing once the full series is complete, in order to make it fit more smoothly with the rest.

Even in the middle of the apocalypse, there are moments of respite, brief windows of relative peace made all the more precious for their rarity. No sudden incursions of Venatori that need the Inquisitor’s immediate personal attention, no new rifts that need to be closed. And for a few nights, the Inquisitor can stay within the relative safety and comfort of Skyhold.

On those evenings, Kashek Adaar often faces a task more dreaded than any demon. He hunches over the desk in his quarters, penning reports and reviewing the missives that Josephine has stacked neatly for him, complete with helpful annotations in her tight, looping handwriting. Oh, his advisors handle as much as they can, but there are always a handful of matters that require the Inquisitor’s personal signature.

He could easily just sign the paperwork in the places that Josie has helpfully marked, but Kashek insists on actually reading them all. Stubborn as ever.

From his vantage, comfortably huddled on the bed in a pile of blankets against the chill mountain drafts that always permeate this tower, Dorian glances up from his book when Kashek snorts in disbelief at some outrageous request. The Inquisitor leans over the paperwork in the candlelight, squinting. Where Josephine managed to procure such a thing is a mystery, but the Inquisition actually found a desk large enough to fit Kashek’s sizable Qunari frame. As he tries to puzzle out this latest political tangle, a small crease furrows his brow, a worry line that has become so frequent, he is beginning to form a true wrinkle.

Dorian would offer to help, but he knows it would only frustrate the stubborn Inquisitor. Though these reports tax him greatly, Kashek is far from stupid. On a battlefield, the former mercenary could quickly and decisively concoct the cleverest strategies to exploit an enemy’s greatest weaknesses. One corner of Dorian’s mouth curls upward as he remembers the time Kashek advised him to gently prod a herd of druffalo with a bit of lightning. It hadn’t been enough to kill the tough beasts, of course, but it did madden them and drive them toward a Red Templar encampment.

But despite all his military brilliance, Kashek has absolutely no head for the mind games and intricacies of the political knots that the Inquisition faces on a daily basis. So instead, he huffs out a frustrated, subconscious sigh as he reads Josie’s latest report of some slighted Orlesian lordling. His hand clenches the pen so tightly that his knuckles whiten. And still, he insists on working through it all himself. Eventually, after he’s deciphered and absorbed it all, he’ll ask Dorian’s advice on the matter. But not until he’s certain he fully comprehends the situation.

So for now, he scowls and frowns slightly. Dorian watches his growing tension, shoulders bunching the seams of the silk shirt he convinced Kashek to purchase on their last trip to Val Royeaux. It was a curiosity, a stroke of luck to find tucked into the back of a couturier’s shop. Such a rarity, a fashionable garment that fit the Inquisitor’s muscular bulk. How could he pass it up? Oh, Skyhold’s seamstresses and tailors are passable enough at their work, Dorian supposes, but they aren’t true artists. They have no eye for bold color, no knowledge of the lines that best flatter the body. The items they make are strictly utilitarian, and the rest of Kashek’s wardrobe comes from the Inquisition’s merchant connections. It is a never-ending deluge of functional pieces that are often as unsightly as they are useful.

So when Dorian stumbled across the larger shirt hidden behind a row of cast-off and flawed pieces a month ago, he had cajoled Kashek into trying it on. It had taken his best skills of persuasion to convince the Inquisitor to purchase it after that. Kashek can spend thousands of coins on a single armor schematic for Skyhold’s craftsmen without batting an eye, but in the end he’d only agreed to the shirt to pacify Dorian. It helped that it was so heavily discounted. After all, who else in Val Royeaux could fit such a garment? It must have been a custom order. Idly, Dorian wonders who had commissioned such a thing, and why they hadn’t eventually bought it.

Oh well, their loss is his gain, a garment worth every copper. The piece fits Kashek like it was made specifically for him, the rich blue of the silk brocade giving his gray skin a warm cast, the tailoring accentuating his broad shoulders perfectly. The small details of silver trim along the collar glint in the candlelight. With his heavy armor cast aside, the formidable icon that is The Herald of Andraste vanishes. Though still large, he is less imposing without the wide pauldrons and the bulk of padded layers. The fine weave and candlelight gives him a softness so few see.

Dorian sighs softly. Indeed, no one else ever gets to admire Kashek in this fine garment. The shirt is not made to wear under armor, and even his duties around Skyhold often require more durable or imposing garb. So here, in private, he wears it, knowing all too well how handsome Dorian finds him in it. It is a little thing, but even so small a gesture of quiet affection is foreign to the mage. A subtle tendril of warmth uncurls through him, one that has nothing to do with magic or the heavy blankets piled on Kashek’s bed.

Suddenly, Dorian’s chest clenches, icy fingers grasping at his heart with that old familiar fear. A warning. _This is not wise._ More than foolish, really, to let his affections grow so strong. These are the end of days, after all, and such circumstances will lead people to clutch at any comfort. If, by some miracle, they do actually succeed at defeating Corypheus and they both survive, Kashek will realize that a longer liaison is ill-conceived.

And Dorian knows that once again, he will pick up the pieces of himself, quietly carry a scar where Kashek had been, and go on. The pain is an old ache. How many times has he felt this sinking knowledge, the certainty his lover will cast him aside when the liaison no longer suits him?

_And yet._

Those old wounds were all secret, furtive things, hidden trysts among Tevinter society. There is something much cleaner, much simpler, in the arms of the Inquisitor. Kashek does not seek to hide his affections, to bury their relationship as a secret shame. On the contrary, the decisive Inquisitor had pursued Dorian with a rather public single-mindedness.

The first time the Inquisitor had grasped Dorian’s hand in public, it had been around the evening campfire in some glacial, accursed corner of Emprise du Lion. Dorian had been shivering on the icy ground, despite the cloak draped over his shoulders and folded beneath him. Still, the chill of the hard stone stole the warmth from him like some sort of insidious, unstoppable demon. Why was everything in the south so damnably cold? Varric had been nearby, regaling Iron Bull and a group of off-duty recruits with tales of Hawke that were almost certainly wholesale fabrications, or at the very least, wild exaggerations. Kashek sat beside Dorian in companionable silence, watching and listening.

It had been such a small gesture for one so significant, the Inquisitor’s hand reaching out and brushing his own. Dorian had reflexively flinched away, the sudden jolt of panic disorienting. Foolish fears rooted deep inside, from years of disdainful glances and thinly-veiled disgust by polite Tevinter society.

But this was not the Imperium.

It had been a heady sensation, to openly reach out a few seconds later and twine his fingers into Kashek’s, in full view of the everyone else at camp, with not a single scandalized gasp from anyone. Bull had cast a knowing glance and approving smirk in their direction, but it otherwise elicited little response. It had made Dorian bold enough to lean closer, letting Kashek’s warm arm wrap around him. One of the Inquisitor’s many excellent qualities, the way he is always unfailingly warm, no matter how chilly their surroundings. And even better, that he so often shares that warmth with Dorian, never once complaining about icy hands or feet pressed against his skin.

The memory of that moment makes him smile softly, still. Tongues do wag, of course, even now. Gossip is no stranger to Dorian, but this is different. Here, the only real criticism is not that Kashek chose a man, but that the Inquisitor had chosen a _Tevinter_. It was rather a novelty, really, to cause a completely different sort of scandal than he was used to. Oh, how his family would be proud of that. His smile widens.

And so, it has taken time to realize that Kashek firmly intends to stay. But the doubts still linger, old ghosts that never quite go away. The snaking, insidious tendrils of pessimism are firmly entrenched, fed by every past wound dealt to his heart, every scornful remark made by his father. He may be a man grown now, but the old cuts dealt to the boy still remain, buried deep.

So for now, he watches his lover, knowing that when all is said and done, he will carry this memory at least. The simple, homey warmth of sitting here, huddled under blankets that smell like Kashek, a good book in his hands. He memorizes every part of this scene. How the Inquisitor writes with such force that he occasionally tears the paper, swears under his breath, and smooths it over. The graceful curve of his horns, and how the candlelight glints off the silver caps that tip them. The small smudge of ink beneath one eye, where he has carelessly scratched a cheek. The way he chews his lip when he works through a problem.

The weight of knowing this can’t last is a heavy one, binding Dorian’s chest so tightly his breath hitches.

Kashek hears, glances up. Taking in Dorian’s expression, his brow furrows further, with worry now rather than frustration. “What’s wrong?”

Dorian pushes aside the pain, an old technique that is a practiced habit by now. It is not gone, never completely. But it subsides enough for Dorian to curve his lips in a sardonic smile and quip, “Just pondering the great tragedy of possible ink stains on those sleeves. True blasphemy, to damage such a glorious weave.”

Kashek knows him too well; he is not fooled. But he also knows better than to push right now. A small frown touches his mouth for a moment, followed by a soft smile as he plays along. “Ah. Well, that is easily prevented,” he remarks, pushing his chair back and stretching.

For such large hands, they are remarkably deft at the row of tiny silver buttons. The shirt slips off easily, candlelight now illuminating a broad expanse of dust-colored skin. The old scars of his profession stand out in sharp, pale contrast, a map of his battle-worn life.

Kashek’s eyes meet his, every shade of gold and copper, with glints of mossy green. They sparkle with mischief as his grin turns sly.

“Why, Inquisitor!” Dorian gasps in a tone of mock scandal. “Are you trying to escape your duties by seducing me?”

“Is it working?” Kashek raises an eyebrow playfully.

It’s impossible not to laugh, to return the Inquisitor’s impish grin. “Tempting, to be sure,” he says with an exaggerated sigh. “But we both well know that Josephine will have my hide if I keep you from those reports.”

With a grimace, Kashek grumbles, “And who thought the Tevinter would be the voice of reason?”

“I know,” Dorian replies, clucking his tongue and opening his book yet again. “What _is_ the world coming to these days? Must be your influence, I suppose.”

“Or the ambassador is just that frightening.”

“Well, there is that, too.” He slyly glances up from his reading to watch Kashek lean back over his papers, but not before carefully draping the shirt over the back of the chair. There had been a time when the mercenary would have carelessly thrown such a garment on the floor, but not now. _Or perhaps just not this particular piece of clothing_ , Dorian thinks with a smile.

The companionable silence returns for a while, though Dorian can’t help but sneak admiring glimpses at the Inquisitor as he works. He watches the tension build in Kashek’s shoulders, hears the frustrated exhalations through his nose when he reads a particularly ridiculous request. His muscles bunch tightly in anger as he pens a short note, probably reporting how poorly their last scuffle had gone. They had emerged victorious in the end, but were unable to save many of the hostages the Red Templars had taken. It had been a heartbreaking and grisly scene, even for war. Such things are a heavy weight on the Inquisitor’s shoulders, one he only confides in his most unguarded moments.

Eventually, it is too much for Dorian. With a small sigh of regret, he sets the book aside and slips from the warmth of the blankets into the chill of the tower. How Kashek manages to sit shirtless in the draft without shivering is a mystery. Dorian’s feet sink into the plush rugs Kashek has scattered across the floor. They appeared in this room shortly after Dorian began making visits to Kashek’s chambers, of course. Another small, unspoken gesture.

He wraps his robe more snugly about himself, though the cold has already seeped underneath. Kashek is so intent on whatever he’s writing at this moment, leaning close over the paperwork to mark a spot on a provided map, that he doesn’t even notice the movement until Dorian is nearly beside him. He startles, then smiles slyly.

“Changed your mind?” he asks, eyes sparkling.

“Perhaps,” Dorian rests one hand on Kashek’s shoulder and circles to stand behind the immense wooden chair. Dorian is only a handsbreadth taller, even though Kashek is seated. The Inquisitor’s skin is warm against his cool fingers. Kashek shivers slightly under his palm, perhaps not entirely from the chill.

It’s a simple enough bit of magic, just the tiniest spark to warm his hands. Usually, it’s a careless waste of energy, too much work for too little reward. But sometimes, it’s worth it. He knows exactly where the worry always knots Kashek’s muscles, right in the spot between the neck and shoulder. With his warmed fingertips and a gentle pressure, he soothes away the tension. A soft sigh slips from the Inquisitor. It would be a deceptively gentle sound from such a bold warrior, if Dorian wasn’t already aware how tender the Qunari could be. Kashek drops his head, letting Dorian’s warmed fingers walk their way up to the nape of his neck right at the back of his skull, smoothing out the knots that gather there as well.

After all of the worry has been worked from Kashek’s bunched shoulders, there is a moment, a precipice. Dorian could stop here, return to the pile of cozy blankets, and let the Inquisitor finish his tasks. That’s what he _should_ do, really. It would only be wise.

But when had Dorian ever done what was wise, when it came to his heart?

Instead, he lets one arm slide over Kashek’s shoulder. He knows a particular spot, just behind and below Kashek’s ear, above a gnarled scar that twists Dorian’s stomach with worry every time he sees it. It was an arrow graze, Kashek told him, one that could have been the end of him if it had struck true only a few inches further away. It is a reminder of the danger the warrior faces every day, how close Dorian is to losing him in any given scuffle. It only takes one lucky arrow. The thought fills him with a sickening dread, a wrenching sensation so strong it should worry him. For a moment, he runs his thumb over the raised scar, reassuring himself. It could have stolen Kashek before they’d ever met, but it did not. He is here, now, and now is what matters most.

The skin just above the scar is smooth and sensitive, and this is where Dorian’s lips brush the lightest of teasing kisses. He is rewarded with a sharp intake of breath that brings a smile to his lips.

“I thought you feared what Josephine would do later if you distracted me,” Kashek rumbles softly.

“Oh, I do,” Dorian agrees, a low whisper in his ear, his wicked grin evident in his voice. “But I’m also quite sure you’re worth the price.”

 

* * *

 

 

Later, Dorian sleepily pulls the blankets tighter over them while Kashek snores softly, as he so often does. With his head resting comfortably on Kashek’s shoulder, the sound rumbles through Dorian, a strangely soothing lullaby in its familiarity.

As sleep drifts up to claim the mage, the peace does not last long. The old worries and fears creep through his veins once again, a sour note against his contentment.

And yet, lying here, breathing in Kashek’s scent, the Inquisitor’s skin warm against his cheek, it is so hard not to hope that this might last. That perhaps, this once, he’s finally found something real.

Would it be so bad to hope after all?

The Inquisitor shifts in his sleep, his arm curling around Dorian and pulling him in close. A soft smile touches the edges of Kashek's lips, though he doesn't awaken.

Another precipice, another choice. Remain guarded against the future that may or may not be, or give himself completely, regardless of the pain that may come?

He chooses happiness, and lets go.

It is the poison drawn out of an old, festering wound, a healing. Surprisingly easy, now that he is ready. The fears drift away, errant leaves in a breeze. Replacing them is a resolve so strong it startles him in its fierceness. _This is worth fighting for_. It may be the hardest battle he’s ever fought, to really and truly _be foolish_ with abandon.

He pries the cold fingers of doubt away from his heart and realizes _he’s_ been the one clutching his fear so close, not the other way around. Those worries and pessimistic certainties had long protected him, built a barrier around his heart that shielded him from the worst of the pain. Or so he had thought. But now it is time, and past time, to shatter that barrier.

Just before consciousness slips away, he breathes the word he’d been so afraid to say. “Amatus.” It feels so right that he wonders why he’d ever been so reluctant to say it, or too proud to truly admit it, even to himself.

His slow breathing matches to Kashek’s, and when he drifts to sleep, his dreams are only pleasant ones.


End file.
